REBOOTS Read online

  “See how easy that was?” the Boggart said, releasing him. “Now I know. And now you know I know. So you know not to try anything really, truly stupid, like leading me into an ambush. Right?” Pete nodded vigorously. The Boggart gave him another shove, and the Reboot started to shuffle forward. “And make sure you don’t lead me in circles hoping we’ll run into someone. I am pretty good at finding my way around a ship.”

  The Reboot’s meanderings became a bit more direct after that, with the only obvious detours being to avoid obvious hotspots (as evidenced by the increased volume in fighting sounds: weapons-fire, screaming, crashing, and the moans of the dying, usually). Finally he stopped at a closed door.

  “This’s the new engine room.” The Boggart gave him a look. “I mean, dude, it’s like the old engine room but there’s new engines in it. FTL stuff, now, instead of the ‘slug drives,’ like the Captain called them, man. He made me go in there a lot…uh, there’s lotsa rads. I guess they weren’t too careful with the refit.”

  Peachy. “Then you’ll know your way around.” He gestured. “After you.”

  If the Reboot had been hoping the information would keep the Boggart out, well…too bad. Because it wouldn’t. Fey didn’t give a crap about rads. The only problem was, they might trigger the box holding the watch, and he didn’t want his revolver and clothing to suddenly start triggering rad alarms elsewhere. The Boggart stripped out of his jumpsuit, piling it in a corner outside of the hatch to the engine room, with his revolver and the box with the watch safely buried under it; he could get to it quickly enough, if need be, and it was unlikely anyone was going to bother looking under a dirty, torn, bloody jumpsuit during all the fighting.

  The Reboot averted his eyes, and fumbled with the access lock. To the Boggart’s eyes, it didn’t look like stalling, it looked like Reboot clumsiness. The outer door slid open, revealing a small safety chamber, adequate for two. “When we get in there, show me where this will do the most damage.” The Reboot saw what the Boggart was holding, and his eyes went wide. “Just to disable the engines; don’t want to send you to the dark below in a radioactive puff, zombie, have no fear.” He imagined that Pete was having a very hard time not fearing, right now. “Think about it. I can’t have you morons chasing me once I get to my boat. Right?”

  “Uh. Right, dude. Whatever you say.” Pete did as he was told, looking over his shoulder at the Boggart every few seconds to make sure that the Para hadn’t changed his mind and decided to blow them both to Hell right there and then.

  Let him think I’m crazy; makes it easier to get this done faster.

  Once it was done they crammed into the safety chamber, Pete closed the inner hatch, then opened the outer one into the corridor. The Boggart dressed and gathered his belongings, checking the cylinder of the Webley out of habit. Still four bullets. And the watch-box seemed unchanged. “Now all I need is an EVA suit, one with full air and propulsion cylinders, and yes, I can tell. You bring me to that, and you and I can part company, Pete.”

  “EVA suits are at the airlock, dude, you can take your pick.” Pete’s gait now was a lot faster, it seemed he couldn’t be rid of the Boggart quickly enough. And just when we were beginning to become such fast friends. Which suited the Boggart just fine.

  After a few more twists, turns, and a couple of tense moments when they had to hide and let a running battle pass them, the Boggart and Pete had reached the airlock. The Boggart checked all of the equipment that Pete selected for him; the suit’s integrity was in the green, the propulsion system read as being okay if a little on the weak side, and the air canisters were topped off. When the Boggart was ready, with his revolver hidden away and the box tucked under his arm, he flipped down his visor and closed the inner airlock door. Pete watched from the other side, still looking nervous; well, as nervous as a Reboot could manage to look.

  “Get out of here, Pete. Run and hide; probably give you the best chance of surviving.” Without another word, the Boggart saluted and then cycled the airlock to depressurize. Pete wasted no time, turning and bolting as fast as his rotted limbs could carry him.

  Once the outer airlock doors were open, the Boggart activated his mag boots and made his way towards the aft of the ship. After that it was a simple matter to use the propulsion unit that the EVA came with to get back to the ship’s own airlock, which the pirates had conveniently left without any sort of security on it. No added security lock, no change to the entry pad, no nothing. Morons. Then again, with what appeared to be a crew fathered by the Three Stooges from Hell, maybe the Captain had figured they’d screw up any sort of security that was put on it, and lock them all out of their prize. As soon as the main cabin was back up to full atmo, he popped off his suit helmet and settled down at the controls. With a few tapped commands, his own engines thrummed back to life; a little thrust, and the tether between his ship and the pirate vessel snapped. Someone must have been at the helm of the former Cenotaph, because it quickly swung around to see what had happened to their captured prey. That’s when the Boggart flipped the safety off of the detonator, and mashed his thumb on the activation stud.

  It was a little anticlimactic; the pirate ship shuddered, and kept drifting in the same direction it had been taking before he killed the engines. Which basically meant it was now rotating, slowly, in about the same space. Good thing they hadn’t actually been traveling anywhere; from what he heard, an abrupt translation from FTL to sublight could be pretty rough for passengers. As in, “crew becomes wet paste against the wall” sort of rough.

  The Boggart set his course on the autopilot before leaning back in his chair. He was in dire need of a drink, and there was an entire minibar to raid. But, first, the grim necessities of his profession. “Time to call this in to the Púca.”

  “You did what?” The Púca was agape on the vid-link. The Boggart was making sure he took a few screencaps of this conversation; he’d want to revisit the look on the Púca’s face often.

  “Tracked down the ship,” the Boggart repeated. “She’d been refitted for a privateer. Had a little talk with the Captain, who wouldn’t see reason, so I eliminated him and shut down the drives. Explosively, I’m afraid, but she’ll still be worth what the original was.”

  “No no no, no.” The Púca shook his head viciously. “I meant about the goddamned bomb!”

  “Quit getting your panties in a wad. The old drives were worthless, and you know it. So what if I took out the new ones? You still have a ship with most of the retrofit done for you. It was the hull that was valuable.” The Boggart snorted.

  “Gods, the bosses are going to have my freakin’ head for this. Maybe my job, too.” He buried his face in his hands, disconsolate. “This was supposed to be simple, nice and quiet, easy even. Hell, I didn’t half expect that you’d find it, really; just have you quit after a while and write it off, nice and tidy without me ever having to leave my desk.”

  “Whatever. We still have a contract. You remember, the one you made sure we had down in triplicate?” No weaseling out of paying me, you bastard. Whatever scam you were hoping to run probably just got shot to shit, too. “Dunno why they’d be pissed off about it. They got the ship with a three-fourth retrofit, they got a buncha privateers they can either hang themselves or turn over for bounty, all’s well that ends well. Don’t BS me about my fee being more than even a bare hull, bucko, I know what this shit’s worth down to the last rivet.” The last part was a bit of a stretch, but it sounded good.

  The Púca threw up his hands in exasperation. “Fine, fine. Christ, you really screwed me on this. Just find that goddamn Fur and finish this rotten mess.”

  “Have it your way. Out.” The Boggart cut the connection, then called Claire.

  Or rather, got her secretary. Looked like a thrall, and like most of Claire’s boys, pretty, but competent. He’d have to give Claire this much; it didn’t look as if she kept anyone useless around. Maybe she got rid all of the useless ones by sending them up against Runner. If nothing else, s
he’s an efficient bitch.

  “Tell your boss her little problem is taken care of, and I’m on my way back. This time, I don’t want a room full of guns in my face when I arrive. Got it?”

  “We will need independent verification of that, Boggart,” said the pretty boy, looking down his nose, as if the Boggart was something green he’d found in the bottom of a coffee cup left in the sink.

  “Just check Home Service’s outgoing tugs. They’re going to retrieve what’s left of the Cenotaph any second now.” The Boggart didn’t really care what the pretty boy thought, but he gave the thrall a grin that showed all of his teeth. All of them. Even if the flunky didn’t believe him, he knew Claire would; if there was one thing about the Boggart, it was that he kept his promises. That would probably get him killed one day. On the other hand, it kept his enemies wary. Part of the reason why he even got this lousy gig was because it was fairly well known that “The Boggart always delivers.”

  “I’ll be doing that,” said the thrall, and looked away; the Boggart saw the young man shiver at the sight of his teeth. “You’ll have docking bay 27. Try not to damage anything coming in.” He cut the connection a picosecond before the Boggart could, getting in one last little snub.

  “Little self-important prick,” the Boggart muttered, and put the ship on auto so he could make some serious inroads on the stocked bar. He needed it, he deserved it and by all the Dark Below, he had earned it. He had time to kill, and wanted to at least look a little bit better by the time he got to the station. The booze and sleep would both help with that. Nothing he could do about his wardrobe though. He was going to invoice Home Service for a new coat at least; “expenses” covered a wide range of things when you were on the H.S. dime, and they had plenty of coin to spare. Good thing for him that most of the Fey healed fast.

  One bottle of very good single malt, one bottle of reasonable blended, and one bottle of bourbon later, followed by a good long nap and a sonic shower…and the Boggart was feeling a good deal better. At least well enough to make himself a triple martini to pass the time while the boat docked itself. Letting a ship autodock was always a time-wasting proposition, because the stupid boats would make as many corrections as a fussy maiden aunt on her first driving test. If there was one thing that engineers took to heart, it was safety, followed very closely by redundancy; in these pleasure yachts, there were safeties aplenty to keep rich morons from becoming dead rich morons. Too bad, in the Boggart’s opinion, though he supposed someone had to pay the bills. There was a lot of money in finding the lost heirs of rich morons. Or not finding them, depending on who was hiring. It was a deep dark galaxy, and credits to be had on both sides of things.

  Much sooner than he would have liked, but at least after he had finished his martini and started on a second, the ship had finished all of the tedious autodocking procedures, and was finally to rest on Claire’s station. The Boggart strolled out of the docking lock still carrying his martini in one hand, the box in the other, and in all his slashed, bloodstained and torn-up glory.

  Most days he preferred to look anonymous, and not make an entrance.

  Today was not that day.

  He was wearing his own face. All of the docking bay personnel looked at him like he had grown a horn in the middle of his forehead. Then they moved carefully aside.

  He grinned at them—helped to remind people that Boggarts had teeth as well as claws—and sauntered in the direction of Claire’s office. He figured sooner or later he’d get an escort. She couldn’t allow him to wander all over the station on his own after all. He might frighten the tourists; probably another reason why she had stuck him at the very end row for the docking bays. When the bodyguards came, they tried their best to slip in silently behind him and beside him, but the Boggart knew all the right tricks and had spotted them the moment he entered the concourse.

  He toasted them. “Evening, gents. Take me to your leader.”

  They all looked to each other, uncertain what to make of the Boggart, but kept walking, guiding him. These weren’t thralls; probably hired guns. Needed some extra muscle after you fed the stupid and weak—or perhaps inconvenient—to Runner, Claire?

  To their credit, these guys were neither stupid nor weak. The rest of them gave a quick glance at one of their number, a man with a close-cropped goatee. That’d be their “occifer”, pardon me, “officer”. He gave an abrupt nod and fell in next to the Boggart; the others formed up behind.

  “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Boggart.” There was no question there; it was a statement. The Boggart nodded back, and ambled along beside him.

  There was no particular reason for a station to be cylindrical or circular anymore, not with artificial grav having become more widespread in recent years. As a consequence, stations had retrofitted and spread out like fat spiders in a web. Claire’s station was no exception. It would have been a long, long walk to the hub, but the tourists would have complained; at the end of the first leg was a transport system; the goons waved him into a car which he shared with the head goon and four others; the rest took another car. He finished his martini and handed the empty glass to the head goon, who looked nonplussed at finding himself holding the empty glass. The head goon then handed it back to one of the others. The Boggart snickered to himself, the booze still affecting him some. What’s the point if I can’t mess with them at least a little bit?

  The car stopped at what was obviously the administration floor of the hub. The Boggart got out, followed by his escort.

  It was pretty obvious where he should go now; the imposing double doors of incised silver metal at the end of the corridor he was looking down. He marched straight for them. He’d have liked to straight-arm them both open just for effect, but they opened before he got there.

  And there was Claire at her desk as if she’d never left it. “Hi, honey,” he said, tossing the box so it landed on the desk with a crash, sending smartpads and desktop trinkets flying. “I’m home.”

  “So I see,” she said dryly. The doors closed behind him, leaving the hired guns in the hall. Evidently they weren’t good enough to step on the carpet in the office.

  He was likely a sight; his jumpsuit, bloody and torn in a dozen places, had the top half wrapped around his waist. The cuts and bruises he’d suffered weren’t completely gone yet, though they didn’t show up as much against his charcoal black skin. Still, he looked battered, and had wanted her to see how much that wasn’t stopping him.

  “I assume you want me to open the box now? Darling?” she asked. As if that was an option.

  “I did what was asked,” he spat. “Though you conveniently left out a few key facts. Like it was a goddamn Wendigo I was supposed to kill.” He gestured at himself. “He didn’t go easily, as you can imagine. He probably made chopped liver out of your own guys. So yes, I want you to open the box and give me back my goddamned pocket watch.” He looked down at her, his dark eyes glinting. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  “Oh. Really.” Her fingertip made little circles on the top of the box. “After you’ve proved so very useful? I’m sure I can think of some other things for you to do.”

  “Don’t play, Claire. A deal’s a deal, and you know what they say ’bout me.”

  She said nothing. She only nodded to the four guards in the room with her. One reached for his shoulder, but the Boggart knew that it was coming. He grabbed the thrall’s wrist, wrenched it, and then put all of his strength in sending the man forward over his shoulder. The Boggart didn’t wait to see what happened to that man; the next one was already upon him, from his left. For that one, he kicked the man’s knee, hyper-extending it; the thrall screamed shrilly, but the wail was quickly cut off by three quick jabs and an uppercut from the Boggart. The man’s teeth clicked loudly as he tumbled backwards.

  There were still two thralls left standing, however. They were far more wary; they spaced themselves out, trying to flank the Boggart from the front and back. The one in front of him was a broad-shouldered bu
ll of a man with a pug face. His eyes were what betrayed him, though; the Boggart saw them widen suddenly, a scant breath before the thrall lunged forward.

  The Boggart fell to his left side, catching himself with his hands and leaving his right leg thrust out. The large man was already committed in his charge, and tripped across the Boggart’s outthrust leg. He went sprawling face first into the man who had been behind the Boggart; they collided in a messy pile, cursing.

  The Boggart recovered first, and began kicking both men as hard as he could, aiming for their kidneys and bellies. Suddenly, arms had wrapped around his chest and arms: the first guard that he had thrown. He was dragged backwards, away from the two guards on the ground in front of him.

  All right, fella. We’ll just take a little bit longer, is all. He sank his claws into the forearms of the man who had grasped him, eliciting a scream from his captor. Lifting one arm up to his face, the Boggart took a bite out of it, wrenching his head to the side suddenly. He felt blood dripping down his chin.

  One of the guards on the ground had disentangled himself, and came running for the Boggart with an upraised fist.

  He was handicapped. He didn’t actually want to kill any of these fools. It wasn’t their fault they had fallen for that treacherous bitch, and been dumb enough to submit themselves as thralls to her blood. It didn’t mean he was going to cut them too much slack, but he understood the why of it all, at least. This was how the Fangs worked. It was instinct for them to gather thralls, it was instinct for them to use their amped-up sex appeal to do so, and when testosterone and Fang pheromones hit the human male, the brains went right out the window. But he was too tired and too beat up to give too much of a shit for whose fault it was. He was pissed off, and would not tolerate this nonsense. Even from Claire. Keep telling yourself that, champ. It’s bound to come true eventually.